Boys in the Valley(47)

“Father Poole! I swear on my soul I’ll be good! Oh Father, please! Don’t put me in the hole with him. He ain’t right, Father. He ain’t . . .” He’s wailing now, inconsolable. Broken. He points at Bartholomew, leading the way, already disappearing into the gloom of the hall. “Oh, please. Not with HIM!”

And then he’s gone. Through the doorway, dragged into the dark. His screaming and begging grow echoey and distant, as if he’s not being pulled down a hallway but through a portal to hell itself. It’s the only sound I can equate it to. The whole thing is a nightmare.

Poole turns back toward the room almost wearily. His face, though deeply lined with exhaustion and slick with sweat, is composed once more. The room is deathly quiet.

“You children will learn to listen and obey,” he says slowly, breathing heavy. “If you don’t, you’ll end up in the hole like the two boys who just left us.” His eyes turn hard. “Either that, or in a pine box. Like your friend Basil.”

No one moves. No one breathes.

I look to Andrew, but he avoids my eyes. He covers his mouth with a shaky hand.

Poole smiles. It curdles like bad milk.

“Now, we will see you all in the dining hall in one hour, cleaned up and ready for dinner. Remember, memorial service in the morning. Do not be late.”

Poole leaves in a flurry of black robe and ill will. White follows, as does Andrew, who closes the door behind him. None of them look back.

“Fuck him.”

I spin and see Simon, strong and confident. His eyes are on the doors, his face set in an expression I’ve never seen on him.

Pure hate.

No one else says a word.





28


THE WIND GROWS FIERCER BY THE SECOND.

As soon as they step out the front doors, Johnson’s hood is whipped off his head, his mangy hair blowing, over his face, into his eyes: long unwashed strands flicking at the sky like frog tongues in search of flies.

Bartholomew walks steadily, five paces ahead, seemingly unbothered by the drop in temperature and skin-grating gusts. Johnson is waiting for him to burst into a sprint, run away toward the horizon, where gray snow-covered earth meets up with the dim red twilight of a hellish sunset.

Meanwhile, Ben has thankfully slowed his struggling, like a fighting fish finally succumbing to the poisonous atmosphere above the water.

He’s mostly crying now. And shaking.

“You can’t do this, Brother Johnson,” he whimpers, the boy’s words nearly lost to the howling wind filling his ears. “Please, you know I’m right!”

Johnson grunts, continues pushing the boy in front of him. “Right about what?”

Ben tilts his head upward to look at Johnson. His eyes are wet and red. His face sallow. Stray snowflakes stick to the moisture on his cheeks and eyelashes. He lowers his voice, barely audible even inches away. “There’s something wrong with him.”

“Nonsense,” Johnson grumbles, but deep down, he is concerned. He’s not sure the boy will survive the night in the hole, not if the temperature continues to drop.

Well, at least there’s two of ’em. That’ll knock the temperature up a couple degrees, anyway. Little bastards are like hot coals.

They reach the sunken square in the yard where the wooden ceiling of the hole is stamped into the frosted ground. Bartholomew, having reached it before Johnson, stops and turns to him, an inquisitive look on his face.

“Shall I dust the snow from the door, Brother Johnson?”

The hell is wrong with that boy? He seems almost eager. His brain must be broken. Yes, I’ve seen it before. Boys whose minds have gone rotten under Poole’s care, like apples browning in the sun, infested with worms.

“If you want,” Johnson replies loudly, and stands in awe while Bartholomew kneels and brushes snow from the trap, as if he’s smoothing bedsheets.

Rotten . . . Johnson thinks, knowing for certain now, in his heart, that the boy is mad. Which explains what Ben is caterwauling about. Doesn’t want to spend the night trapped with a madman.

Can’t say I blame him. That child gives me the willies.

With a speed and strength Johnson thought long-sapped, Ben twists violently beneath his hands and begins to run. “No!” he yells, reaching for the boy. Although caught momentarily off guard, he’s dealt with these brats enough over the last decade to have developed certain reflexes, his long arms already reaching well before his mind even registers the boy’s escape. He feels one hand snag a head of hair, the other a worn shirt collar. He grips and pulls. Ben yelps in surprise and then drops to the ground, writhing and screeching like a banshee.

Johnson drops to his knees as the boy convulses beneath his hands, sobbing hysterically, wide, terrified eyes bulging from his head. Ben actually begins crawling through snow and earth to pull free of Johnson’s grip, as if he can somehow scratch and claw his way to freedom.

This one’s mad as well! he thinks. But enough is enough.

Johnson’s mouth tightens as he grips one of the child’s thin arms with both hands, gets back up onto his feet, and drags Ben toward the now-open hatch. The boy’s legs kick wildly and slide in the snow, his breathing fast and harsh.

“No no no no no no no no . . . please God, please Jesus . . . oh Lord, oh Johnson, please, I pray to thee . . .”

“Shut up!” Johnson roars, exasperated and disturbed by the protestations. Part of him wants to punch the boy’s skull, stun him and toss his body into the pit. The other wants to pick the poor bastard up and hold him tight, tell him it’s over, that it was a joke, that he can go back inside now and play with the others, have a warm supper.